


Burning like the ones before us

by Zofiecfield



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, One Shot, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zofiecfield/pseuds/Zofiecfield
Summary: When evil comes to Purgatory and women begin to burn, Nicole turns to the two mysterious sisters who live at the edge of town.
Relationships: Waverly Earp & Wynonna Earp, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp & Nicole Haught
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Burning like the ones before us

There was a house at the edge, miles from the others in the town of Purgatory. Small and barely standing, it appeared fragile, ready to submit to the next gust of wind. Yet it stood, no matter the insults nature slung, and did not waver.

The children, free to roam, avoided it on instinct. Their parents, grown on that same soil, avoided it as well. They had their reasons, though few held any truth, stuff of rumor and whisper and stories in darkness.

In the house lived two young women, sisters. They kept to themselves, as far as anyone knew.

The elder sister was not well liked, and on the rare occasion that she ventured into town, she ignored the flecks of spit and hostile stares that met her on the street. Already unnerved, the townsfolk hated her for her steady gait and feared the rage that flickered behind her steady gaze. 

The younger sister, sweet and soft, was welcomed warmly. Drawn to a pretty thing, many men tried to keep her, to bind her to them, but none could hold her. Those who tried refused to speak of it after and did not dare approach again.

Evil came to Purgatory in the year of the long winter, 1692. Well, evil had been there long before that, seen but never spoken of, never given a name. It was well rooted in the town, in the soil, in the hearts of those who grew there. They had turned a blind eye, single-minded in their desire to carry on unchanged. Nimble and bold from years of their ignorance, evil chose that year to unfurl its hair and dance amongst them. 

The evil came in the form of men, who arrived as though from shadow. The men came and preached of dark deeds, of disruption and doom coming. They warned of those who step beyond their station, those who challenge the old ways and devour decency and good. 

They shouted about women, witches.

The townsfolk, so enamored with their ways, with their order, with the silences they kept, listened. They chose to believe. They did not notice the flash darkness in the men’s eyes, too busy were they casting about their suspicious gaze. They looked but did not see.

The men came for the women who dared to be different,  
for the women who spoke too loudly  
for the women who spoke out against them.

The men came for the women who were kind when the world demanded cruelty,  
for the women who saw a better world,  
for the women who saw a glimmer of hope, of change.

The men came and burned the women, one by one.

The townsfolk stood by. They watched, as their neighbors, their friends, their daughters were taken.  
“It is for the best,” they said. “She wasn’t like us. She was different.”

The town had one sheriff. He had no official deputy, but there was a woman who kept his books, and, in the quiet of his small office, served as a sounding board. He loved her as a daughter and as an equal, though in his pride, he would not have admitted to such.

When the men arrived in town, when the evil tore aside its mask, she came to him. “This isn’t right,” she said, “We have to stop this!” And, in a whisper, “I think these men are the devil himself. I’ve seen it in their eyes.”

Set in his ways, he shook her off, but she persisted. 

Daily she came to him, pleading for him to do something, to intervene. Pleading for strength he did not have, for bravery he couldn’t muster. 

It terrified him, to watch her rise, to listen as her voice grew louder. He continued to turn a deaf ear, to tamp down her protests and carry on silent as he had for so long. He refused to acknowledge her pleas and reason.

With each day, she stepped closer to the men who would deem her a threat and take her if she continued this path.

The day she showed him the legers, now full of her notes, observations, theories, plans, he rose quietly and met her eyes. His voice hard and final, he sent her away. “Go home. Don’t come back. You have no place here any longer.”

The spark of hurt in her eyes nearly broke him, and he longed to reach out and pull her into his confidences, to speak the silences he kept. But, he turned his back and let her walk away, believing this was the only way to save this woman he held dear.

A good man, vision clouded by his self-appointed authority, he thought he had done right. 

But, no woman is saved with oppression.

Her name was Nicole, or so the stories say. She was built too tall, too strong, too determined for this time, for this place. 

That night, Nicole left the Sheriff’s office and the life she’d built. She ran without looking back, the ledgers tucked underneath her cloak. 

Her red hair tossed in the wind and the dust kicked at her heels. An orange tabby found her on the way and kept her company on the journey, a guardian in the darkness. 

At the edge of town, miles from where she’d started, she found the small house. She had heard the rumors and hushed whispers, seen the looks of scorn. She had read the slim truth running through them and knew better.

She knocked, breathless but unafraid.

A woman answered, the younger of the sisters, and she greeted Nicole as one would greet an old friend, anticipated and cherished. 

Within a single breath, a single squeeze of an outstretched hand, Nicole was drawn into the warmth of her and of her home. The woman led her to the fireplace, wrapped her in a quilt, and pressed a hot mug of something spiced into her hands. She kissed Nicole on the forehead and left the room, returning a moment later with her sister. 

The young woman was Waverly, named by a mother she barely remembered. A spritely thing in spirit and size, she was well-spoken, generous, and even-keeled. To Nicole, she felt familiar, just a nudge of a feeling, uncanny and incredibly soft.

Her sister, Wynonna, was tall and fierce and wary, grown too soon and heavy with the weight she carried. She wore this weight as armor, holding the world and its cruelty at bay, but the light in her eyes betrayed her hope and good humor. 

With clear and practiced eyes, they saw Nicole for who she was, her heart scarred and steady, and ready to fight. She had only just arrived, but already she was theirs, each claiming her in their own way. 

By the fire, they spoke for hours. 

The sisters had felt the evil as it grew and stretched and yawned, they had anticipated its coming, seen the telltale signs. Nicole confirmed their dread, bringing stories of women, taken and burned, stories of evil men and the people who paved their path with silence. 

In rage and grief, Wynonna roared into the night and made to tear from the house. Her sister stopped her with a single hand and a whisper.

To burn out in a single brilliant blaze would be satisfying for a moment but would not bring lasting change. They needed to build a flame that would last, a flame that would illuminate the darkness and force sight.

That was the first night. Wynonna stood watch all night, pacing, restless. Waverly, needing no words, drew Nicole to her and they slept, sparks flying between their fingertips.

In the days that followed, in a fury, they worked tirelessly. They poured over the leger, sifted through old texts pulled from the dust, studied what little law the land still obeyed. 

In the nights that followed, they wrapped themselves in midnight cloth, donned trousers, and tied back their hair. They rode into town in darkness, freeing women where they could, killing men where they couldn’t. 

The house began to fill with women, rescued, escaped, outspoken, overlooked. Each as strong and bright as the next. They followed the three, and under their guidance, they became a force of Nature herself. An army to answer Evil’s call.

The men did not admit to their nighttime losses, to these small but sharp defeats. They boasted and kept their prideful faces polished. They wove stories of midnight wraths, women cloaked in darkness bringing violence and an end to order. 

The townsfolk listened. They believed when they were told to believed. They feared when they were told to fear. They hated when they were told to hate. 

They began to whisper about the women at the edge of town, and the whispers built and built, gaining solidity, a mimic of the heft of truth. 

They needed someone to blame for their anger and discomfort, someone besides themselves.

The Sheriff heard their whispers, often unseen as he moved around the town, blending in among them, listening with keen ears. 

When he could afford to wait no longer, he stole away in darkness, to warn the only deputy he’d ever had, the child and friend he’d lost. 

As he approached the edge of town, she walked out a way to meet him. Her scarlet hair lashed in the wind and she stood tall. Alone and unafraid.

“They’re coming for you tonight, all of you,” he warned. She did not respond, did not shift her eyes from him. Unnerved, he pleaded and threatened, to no avail. “They’ll kill you, and I won’t be able to stop them. Leave these women now. Stop this nonsense. Come back and be quiet until this is over, save yourself.”

She looked at him with new eyes, full of sadness and pity. “How tired you must be, carrying so much silence. That guilt, such a heavy weight.” 

He wilted, tried to speak again but could not. “Help us,” she said, an offer, not a plea. “Be better than they are.”

This forgiving hand, outstretched, found him. He shifted his weight to reach for her, but froze. Footsteps were approaching, the crunch of dry leaves. 

His heart sank. Hers did not falter.

The townsfolk, armed with torches and fearful hearts, began to encircle them, crowding in to peer at this woman in hatred or jealousy or muted wonder. They whispered among themselves, whispered about what the Sheriff would do. 

Then the men arrived, flanked the Sheriff, waiting. They held all the power and he was at their mercy, or so they thought. And, though the Sheriff should have known better, though he had much more power than they, he believed as they did. He believed himself powerless and in doing so, handed them his power to wield as they wished.

“Burn her,” the Sheriff said, for fear of what it would mean not to. His heart shattered as the words left his lips. 

The men whooped in glee, watching him break, crushing the shards of his heart under their heels. They took her, and he let them.

He was a good man, but good men can still be weak, and in their weakness, lose claim to that goodness. Maybe someday, good men would be strong in the ways that matter. Maybe they would choose to be better. 

The women, mere feet away in the mist, silent and unseen, waited. They did not intervene. This was their agreement, and though they died a little as she was taken away, they held firm. This was not yet done. Their time had not yet come.

Nicole was set to burn in the center of town just before dawn, where so many had burned before her.

Time and time again, these devils had faced the women who burned at their hands. Their eyes flashed red, darkness seeping from them, and sharp toothy grins played along their lips. 

At their backs, the crowds jeered and spat, still unseeing.

Only the women, flames licking at their feet, saw these men for what they were. Some screamed or fainted or struggled. But many nodded, suspicions confirmed. They stood tall, resigned to their fate, this system, written against them from its infancy. They did not weep. They trusted they had taught the next ones well, trusted in the chains of women that extend into a future, each link drawing closer a better world.

Nicole stood tall. She did not weep. 

The men could taste something different in the air that night, shadows moving in the mist, and it made them restless and uneasy, impatient to see this done. Something was different in these early hours. Something was different about this one, with her red hair and her knowing gaze that shot straight through them. 

They lit the match and tossed it at her feet. Her steady face broke into a wide grin, dimples dancing at the edges. 

Before they could question this, before they could process their sudden fear, the town and the hardened hearts it held exploded in fire and cries of torment. The world went blinding red, and then black. 

They called women witches, scorned them and treated them as such. They should not have been surprised when the women rose to the challenge.

When the dawn broke to illuminate the scene, when the flames died down and the world found quiet, only the women remained standing. They had been patient and their time had come. In a broad circle they had bound themselves, hands linked, voices singing ancient words in rounds and rounds and rounds.

The evil men were gone, returned to the place that had born their dark hearts. 

The rest were left on their knees, clutching their chests and heaving sour bile.

Slowly, the pain eased, and the townsfolk staggered to their feet. Eyes open, seeing, and, however briefly, healed of their ignorance and hatred. 

The women dispersed, fading into the crowd with no demand of acknowledgement. They were accepted with quiet gratitude, the lingering comfort of silence.

Wynonna stood guard at the base of the pyre, though none there would have dared challenge her. Waverly climbed and unbound Nicole, kissing her softly and stroking the ash from her hair. Hand in hand, they descended.

The three women, this family bound by fire, returned to the little house at the edge of town, their work only just begun. 

The townsfolk would forget, in time, in generations. They would mar this blank slate, so generously given. 

This would not be the last time sweet devils would persuade them to bite their tongues.

The story gets told across the years. Some hear but few listen. 

Men continue to burn women in a multitude of fashions, to turn the eye from their own evil deeds, while others stand silent. 

But, often quiet, often unseen, there are those of us who fight back like the ones who fought before us, the next link in the chain.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.


End file.
